


there is a crack, a crack in everything (that's how the light gets in)

by sansaswildlinglover



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Communication Failure, F/M, Family, Fix-It of Sorts, Future Fic, Guilt, Healing, Jonsa is endgame, Loneliness, Politics, Post-Finale, Secrets, Slow Burn, Survivor Guilt, Tags May Change, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, canon divergent from episode 5 on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-04-07 19:09:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19091281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansaswildlinglover/pseuds/sansaswildlinglover
Summary: ***ring the bells that still can ringforget your perfect offeringthere is a crack, a crack in everythingthat's how the light gets inWhen King's Landing falls, Sansa marches south, still unaware that the future of the Seven Kingdoms lies in her hands, and that the peace she will broker comes with a price...Sansa finds herself back in Winterfell, separated from her family by distance, duty and yet another secret, raising another bastard child as she rebuilds herself, the castle and the North.Jon heals in the True North, finding his own worth again, and discovering that even after being lost, he can find purpose in his own heart and mind again, even burdened by the crippling guilt and resentment which will take him many years to learn how to carry and let go.Ten years is a long time, but they say time heals all wounds. But what if time only adds more complications? Winter is always coming, and even family, duty and honour are at odds sometimes.***A rewrite of episode 6 and what comes afterCURRENTLY ON HIATUS, PLANNING TO CONTINUE THIS IN SEPTEMBER





	1. you're a hard soul to save, with an ocean in the way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from Florence and the Machine's _Over the Love_

_ring the bells that still can ring_  
_forget your perfect offering_  
_there is a crack, a crack in everything_  
_that's how the light gets in_

 

 

**I. You're a hard soul to save, with an ocean in the way**

 

**_Sansa_ **

Sansa has spent so many years of her life waiting, her hands tied and powerless to change her own situation, until she realized no one was going to save her, she needed to save herself. She has known one or two true friends who tried to help her, but ultimately she had to take matters into her own hands. 

Being powerless now that it's not her own life and safety that are on the line, but those of the people she loves the most is worse. She spends her nights worrying, turning everything that happened the last couple of moons over in her mind, looking for mistakes and wrong decisions, but she only ends up crying herself to sleep over it.

She is no longer a little bird locked up in a golden cage, she's the Lady of Winterfell now, but she's never felt more helpless. She's almost relieved when Maester Wolkan hands her Lord Varys' scroll.  _It is done._ The eunuch has sent ravens to all corners of the Seven Kingdoms, announcing the truth of Jon's birth to all the lords and ladies of Westeros.

"How soon until we are ready?" she asks the Maester.

"A fortnight, my lady."

She nods. "Very well."

Since Daenerys has left, she's done everything in her power to protect the people she loves. She talked to the Hound before he left, although she is aware Arya can look after herself, she even promised Bronn the Dreadfort so he'd go after Jaime Lannister, for Brienne's sake, but the one she loves most will be the most difficult to save. 

She made a sacred vow to herself once, that she would never set foot in King's Landing again, but she's done far worse to survive, and this is not the first oath she's broken to protect  _him._ Some days she feels it's all she's ever done for him, break rules and promises, betray even herself to keep him safe.

If he knew, if he understood, he'd tell her he wasn't worth it, but she has to believe he is. He won't understand though, and he might never want to see her again, but if he lives, if he's safe, it will all be worth it.

After sending the maester and her steward off with instructions for her bannermen and the rest of the household, she goes to Bran in the Godswood.

"You're leaving," he says as she approaches the Heart Tree. "I'm coming with you."

"No." The word rolls from her lips without hesitation. She won't put another member of her family in danger by letting them go south, not her little brother. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell," she reminds him.

The quirk of a smile he offers her is both indulgent and defiant. "Winterfell will be fine. You can trust the Lady Alys to run the keep in your absence. And Lord Larence will leave a regiment to guard the castle."

She knows this, they made the arrangements together when she told him about her fears.

"Winterfell will be fine," he repeats, "but you will need me."

She wrings her hands, biting her lip in doubt. She's not too proud to accept her brother's offer of help, but keeping him safe is more important. 

He waits for her answer, but when it doesn't come he adds: "Jon will need me."

She nods.

 

She barely sleeps on the march South, and whenever she does succumb to fatigue, she's haunted by nightmares. She's running, always running, until her lungs hurt and her muscles burn, but she can never get there soon enough. In the distance she sees the flames, red, green, orange and blue, licking at the crumbling shadows of the Red Keep.

When she finally gets closer, she hears them roaring, she hears the screams and the sobs, the hissing that makes her wince when the fire spits at her as she struggles through the rubble. There are charred bodies and ashes everywhere. 

She trips and stumbles to her knees, hand reaching out as she almost falls on her face, accidentally gripping a blackened arm that crumbles to dust under the pressure of her fingers. A short, skinny blade tinkles as it drops to the cobbled stones.

She reaches the gates of the Red keep, which open before her, and a head covered in dark curls rolls down the steps, landing at her feet. Grey eyes stare up at her from a pale lifeless face, and Sansa screams. 

Brienne barges into the tent the first night she dreams of seeing him dead. Sansa wakes up drenched in sweat, heart pounding and her throat raw, but even in her terror and confusion, she recognizes the knowing look of pity in her sworn shield's eyes.

The dream returns, and more people she loves are burned and impaled on Unsullied spears, even though she's already lost them moons, or even years ago. The pain of watching them die is still as sharp as the first time she said goodbye to them.

 

At Greywater Watch, Lord Reed has twenty crannogmen with keen eyes and sharp arrows waiting for them, and a message from Tyrion Lannister.  

There are only seven words on the scroll Lord Tyrion has sent her.  _King's Landing is burning_. And several inches below:  _You were right_. She might wonder who the culprit was, whether it was Cersei who wanted to keep the Dragon Queen from taking the city if she couldn't hold it, or if it was Daenerys herself who did it in a bout of fury, if it wasn't for that addition.

She was right, but it brings her no joy. Perhaps it would have been better if she was still a silly little girl who believed in songs and had faith in people's good hearts. In hindsight the shock of her world falling apart doesn't seem half as bad as expecting it and still being powerless to avoid it.

"I'm afraid we can't delay, my lord," she tells Howland Reed. "We'll stay long enough to let the men and the horses rest and get some food in them, but then we must be going again. I thank you for your support and hospitality."

"I will always offer any help I can to Ned Stark's children," Lord Reed assures her fiercely. "And to Jon Snow. I was there when your father made his promise, and I'll always be indebted to Lyanna Stark."

She offers him a smile, oddly moved by the small grey crannogman's fervour. 

"Speaking of," he continues. "Your sister passed through here about a moon's turn ago. She looks so very much like her." 

Sansa wishes not for the first time Father had talked to them about his sister, to her and Arya, but also to Jon, even if he couldn't tell him the truth. 

"I suspect she was trying to remain unseen," he says with an amused quirk of his lips. "But I didn't like the look of the fellow she was with, so I sent a couple of trustworthy girls after them, just to be safe."

"Lord Reed," Sansa answers, shaking her head. "I am sure I will never be able to repay you for everything you did for House Stark, but if the day should ever come that you require my help in any matter, you need only ask and I shall give it."

Howland Reed bows his head. "My lady."

Their further passage through the Neck goes smoothly.

Her cousin Robin Arryn joins them where the Kingsroad meets the Green Fork. Sansa Stark crosses the Trident with five thousand Northerners, two thousand Vale Knights and six thousand more foot soldiers at her back.

 

They only stay at Riverrun for a day, and it's already too long for Sansa's liking. She knows sleep will only bring her more nightmares, so she spends the night in her Uncle Edmure's solar.

He's reluctant to follow her to King's Landing, but Bran told her they need him.

Edmure shakes his head when she asks him once more. "The Lords of Westeros do not love me. They don't trust me. They think me a coward and a traitor."

"You did what you had to do," she answers, staring into the dancing flames of the hearth, trying to make her eyes too weak to see the horrors she fears when she closes them. "The smallfolk love you. You've always tried to protect them."

"So I have," he agrees. 

 

_**Jon** _

Ashes keep twirling down like some morbid parody of snowflakes, covering the steps of the Red Keep in a deceptively peaceful looking blanket of white, covering every relentless, cruel piece of evidence of what happened here only days ago. But Jon has seen all of it, and no matter how much he wishes he could undo it, or even only unsee it, as selfish as that sounds, he can't. He doesn't know how anyone can ever forget this.

The almost silence surrounding him makes his ears ring, and it feels as if he's watching everything slightly warped and from a distance, as if some invisible shield is separating him from the rest of the world.

He doesn't recognize the woman who is overlooking what's left of the Dothraki and Unsullied armies. As familiar as her face, her eyes, the gleam of her hair and her voice are, she's a stranger to him. They're all strangers to him now, all of these people who fought together against a common enemy, even the small group of Northmen who remained inside the city walls.

He's led most of them back to the camp outside the city walls, ever mindful of his duty, holding on to who he was before, even though he's not that person anymore, hasn't been since he came back from the dead.

And after this? How can anyone live through this and still be the same person after? Is he still a person? He came back a shell of the man he used to be, and every part of himself  _she_ saved has probably been destroyed here in King's Landing.

He is no green boy, he knows men can behave like beasts in battle, but he's never seen this kind of war before. _Gods,_ he's so tired. Fires are still smoldering all throughout King's Landing, and he wishes they would rise up and burn them all, everyone still inside this cursed city, himself included, so the rest of the world can move on without being tainted by what happened here. 

He stays back, trying to merge into the shadows. Part of him wants to go to her, let her tell him it was all a bad dream, that he was not so very wrong about her. Who could do something so atrocious and not be crushed by the knowledge of what they had done?

Ramsay would have done this, Cersei might have, if given the chance, though he can't be sure. But as ruthless, cruel and quick-tempered as she could be, he never thought Daenerys was anything like Ramsay.

 _No_. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. No one was supposed to pay for his decisions. He was to be the only victim. He’d been willing to sacrifice his pride, his honour, the respect of his people,  _her_ love, but not this.

 

"Jon." His name reaches him, the voice uttering it soft and fragile, almost making it unrecognizable.

"What are you doing here?" he whispers furiously as Arya looks up at him, ash, blood and dust caking her face and matting her hair. 

"I came here to kill Cersei," she says mechanically. "I never got to her, but she must be dead."

"Aye, she must be."

"We told you your queen couldn't be trusted," she sighs.

 _We._ A flash of tears in bright blue eyes. He shakes his head. He can't think about her. Not now. Not anytime soon.

"It's too late," he mutters. He helped Dany do this, they all helped her do this. There's no going back or stopping her now. "She's everyone's Queen now."

"Not mine," Arya answers without missing a beat. "Not Sansa's."

He remains silent, and she takes his hand. "Come with me."

"I can't." It will never be over. He'll do what he needs to do to protect them. No matter the cost. "Wait for me outside the city walls," he tells her. "Promise me."

She nods.

 

The castle looms over him, a shadowy monster making his knees and heart heavier. Sansa will never listen to him, she never has. Neither will Daenerys. Was it always going to come down to this? Was he always supposed to end up contemplating committing such a vile act?

_Kill the boy, Jon Snow._

Davos meets him in the Red Keep's hallways. "What now, my lord?" he asks, and Jon can hear the uncertainty in his voice.

"I don't know."

He is oddly reminded of those first few moments they shared after he came back from the dead more than two years ago now.  _Seven Hells,_ has it only been two years? It feels more like an entire lifetime to him.

"I fought, and I lost," he says repeating the words he said to the older man on that day. "I failed again, just like you told me."

"Can't say this is what I had in mind," Davos answers with a deep sigh. "If it's any comfort, you always did the right thing, even if it seemed like there was little honour in it."

Jon would laugh, if he didn't feel so tired.  _What now, my lord?_ He knows what he needs to do, but every fibre in his body is screaming at him. _Find someone else! It doesn't have to be you!_

 _You know nothing, Jon Snow,_ Ygritte sneers at him.

 _I know what it feels like,_ he wants to object. He knows the shock, the pain, the sting of betrayal, the terror. The cold, the nothingness. He's killed men in battle, so many of them, when it's kill or be killed, but this is different.

"Tell me, Ser Davos," he begins, finally meeting the other man's gaze. "Where is the honour in stabbing a defenceless, unarmed woman in the back?"

He watches the other man's eyes grow wide. "I'll come with you," he offers. "I'm afraid I won't be much help, but I won't let you go in there alone."

 _The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,_ Sansa and Arya told him in the Godswood, but Arya fled, Sansa broke her promise, and he's alone again. He's always been alone.  _Gods,_ please, let there be someone else.

"No." He won't ask anyone else to be part of this. "My sister is waiting for me outside the city walls. I want you to go to her and help her."

_I am the shield that guards the realms of men. Fuck my honour._

 

Tyrion is leaving the Throne Room, flanked by two Unsullied, his face drawn and his Hand pin missing from the lapels of his doublet. He mutters something in Valyrian and the two guards exchange looks.

"You need to stop her!" he calls out to Jon. "She'll do it again. You know she will."

He balls his fists, nostrils flaring as he tries to keep a straight face. "I don't want to speak to you."

The dwarf clenches his teeth. "I understand, Snow, but think! Think! What happens to the next person who dares stand in her way?"

"Who is going to stand in her way after what she did here?" he scoffs, holding back any emotion from seeping into his voice. 

"You know who will!" He starts shouting as the Unsullied try to drag him along. "Do you have any idea what crime I'm being arrested for? Sending letters to your sister! To Sansa!"

He turns away, closing his eyes, every muscle in his body tense and on edge.  _I'll protect you, I promise._

He opens his eyes, taking a deep breath, and steps into the Throne Room. 

Daenerys is kneeling by the enormous head of her dragon, her last child, brought down by Euron Greyjoy himself. The beast still got to him, burning him to a crisp before collapsing onto the roof of the Throne Room.

The building caved in under the weight of the dragon's body, delivering his mother where she'd wanted to be for so many years.

It's somewhat of a miracle they both survived the fall, and part of him wishes they hadn't. He'd feel guilty at the relief that would wash over him, but he wouldn't have to force himself to take another step. He wouldn't be wishing that the floor in front of his feet would split open and swallow him whole.

 

All he remembers afterwards is the still warm weight of her body in his arms, how easily the blade went in to find its target, and her eyes. Those eyes had looked up at him with love, trust, desire, pleasure, but also rage, fear, resentment, despair. 

They were determined now, hopeful, still full of faith, the eyes of a child, the eyes of a madwoman perhaps, he wouldn't know. There was surprise in those violet depths as the blade went in, shock and disbelief, but the light faded from them before they could turn to revulsion and betrayal.

He's not sure if that brings him comfort.

 

He's thrown into a cell. It's not what he expected, he thought they would kill him on the spot, torture him first perhaps, but they've hardly touched him.

He has a black eye and possibly a broken nose, and his knees and shoulders are bruised, but he's had much worse than that.

He's heard shuffling and other movements on the other side of his cell. Rats, he suspects. They must still be getting food then, they haven't tried to eat him yet.

He doesn't know how much time has passed, only knows that the hunger pangs are getting worse, that his head aches and is making him feel dizzy.

He hears the shuffling again, and then suddenly, a voice. "Come closer."

He's not sure why he obeys, as she does the same.

"Jon Snow, or is it Aegon Targaryen now?" It's too dark to see much of her face, but even now he can hear the defiant smirk in her voice. 

"I thought you were dead," he tells her, not answering her question.

"Yes, dead. So did I," Cersei Lannister muses. "But I survived. I've always survived. What are you doing in here?"

He's not sure how he ended up in a cell with this woman who's caused so much pain and chaos, but he doesn't have the energy to truly question it.

"What do you think she'll do to me?" she asks when he doesn't answer her first question.

"She won't do anything to anyone anymore," he hears himself murmuring, hating the truth of it. He still can't quite believe it was Dany who did that. Why didn't he see it?

 _I loved her,_ he thinks. _I feared her._ He refused to see the truth because it was inconvenient.  _You knew what she was._ Not this, never this.

"Is she dead?" Cersei asks, her voice soft and high with excitement.

"I killed her," he tells her.

There's a moment of silence, and then a sharp hollow slapping sound, completely out of place here, fills the air. It takes him a while to realize she's clapping for him.

"You killed the woman you loved?" she asks. "What a hero. You're even more of an idiot than your father--  _uncle,_ " she corrects herself.

He turns his back to her and grumbles: "Shut up."

"Why did you do it?" she wonders. "To save all the innocent souls she would have burned alive if you hadn't stopped her?"

He doesn't want to be talking to this woman, and yet, the darkness and the fact that he doesn't care about her one bit is encouraging. 

"No," he bites back. "I don't care about those innocent souls, not really."

She laughs. "You don't? Haven't you spent half your life defending the realm from snarks and grumkins?"

_Aye, but that was before._

"You were there, weren't you?" she whispers, her voice so sweet it's hard to imagine this is the cruelest woman in Westeros, who's hurt people he loves in unimaginable ways. "Even I was horrified by what she did."

He clenches his fists, but it's not a taunt, or perhaps it is, yet there's sincerity in her voice.

"You know, Jon Snow," she continues. "I haven't slept well in years. I lie awake at night, dreaming up different ways to hurt and punish my enemies. I've done unspeakable things to protect myself and my family, but what she did..." She trails off, her voice going breathless with awe.

"I don't care about innocent people, but you, you've alway been the type who does," she concludes.

He shrugs, indifferent to the fact that she might not see him in the dark. "It's not why I killed her," he murmurs, not sure if he's talking to himself or to the woman sitting a couple of feet away from him. "All I wanted was to run and never look back."

He's wanted to do that so often in the last two or three years, and he wonders why he never did it.

"Why did you do it then?" she wants to know.

It's really none of her business, but there's something tempting about the idea of telling her. The dark around them is comforting, and she's the last person who could judge the darkness inside of him. He's a kinslayer and a queenslayer now, cursed in the eyes of gods and men. He's sacrificed his own honour time and time again, and for what?

"You're not the only one who'd do anything to protect the people you love," he tells her.

He's surprised that his answer manages to shut her up. He shuffles away from her, rolling up into a ball, digging his fists into his aching stomach.

He's already drifting out of consciousness when he hears her sigh in a sing-song voice: "The things we do for love."

 

 

 


	2. and it's over, and i'm going under

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I noticed a mistake slipped in in chapter 1 that I have corrected now. I originally had Drogon die falling onto the roof of the Red Keep, but I changed my mind about it. I specified that both Drogon and Daenerys survived the fall, but a couple of sentences earlier, I accidentally left in the version of a paragraph where I said Drogon is dead. Sorry for the confusion and to be clear: Drogon is still alive! For now... :)
> 
> This is the chapter where I introduce the as of now Named Prince of Dorne: Olyvar Yronwood Martell!  
> Some background info on him:  
> \- his mother Linnea Yronwood is not a character that exists in the show or books, I vaguely based her and Oberyn's story off an affair Oberyn had with Lord Yronwood's paramour, and decided to make her Lord Osmond Yronwood's daughter instead of his father's mistress, because the timeline and ages of the Yronwood characters are very unclear.  
> \- Meriona Martell is the name I decided to give Doran, Elia and Oberyn's unnamed mother.
> 
> You're getting 5 POVs in this chapter, so they're all rather short, but I needed to set up a couple more things and tie up some loose ends.
> 
> Mild warning for female on male sexual assault in the Cersei POV.
> 
> chapter title from Florence and the Machine's _Never Let Me Go_

**II. And it's over, and I'm going under**

 

_**Olyvar** _

_Unbowed, unbent, unbroken_.  They are words Olyvar has never been able to call his own, being raised as a Sand, one of many his father had sired, though the only boy to live to adulthood. Lord Ormond Yronwood had been livid, ready to rise up in rebellion when he learned Oberyn Martell had deflowered his only daughter Linnea, leaving her with a bastard in the belly, and it had only been Princess Meriona's silver tongue that had saved Dorne from a civil war, but perhaps his dead grandfather would be glad of his existence now. 

Dorne finally has a Prince with Yronwood blood, the ancient house who had called themselves kings before the conquest, finally united with house Martell in such an unlikely heir. Dorne chose him and granted him both of his parents' names, and finally he can claim his father's house words.

He never meant to betray them within moons of being chosen. He hasn't, but he knows there are some in Dorne who believe he has. He promised Daenerys Targaryen he'd support her cause, but that didn't mean he'd bow to her or that he'd let her bend him to her will. Some of his advisors had told him not to answer her call, to stay out of it. The Dragon Queen was fighting a war in the North, and then she still had Cersei Lannister to deal with. It could be years before she turns her eye to Dorne again.

But Olyvar knows his histories. Dragons have always been greedy, and the Targaryen Queen made the King in the North bend the knee before she agreed to help him fight his war. She won't leave Dorne in peace, and if he wants her to be agreeable to Dorne's wishes, he'll have to give her something first. He won't have anyone call him a fool for openly defying an invader with a Dothraki horde, thousands of Unsullied and two or three full-grown dragons, depending on who you ask.

His father used to be called the Red Viper, and what makes the viper so lethal is its ability to be patient and lay low until the right time to strike presents itself. If he wants to live up to Oberyn's example, laying low needs to be more than waiting and doing nothing. 

First he will help Daenerys Targaryen win the Iron Throne, and then he'll make his demands. If she refuses him... Well, in that case the Seven Kingdoms will be better off without her anyway.

Perhaps it's too bold of him to assume he'll be the Prince who'll give Dorne its freedom back, but who could blame him for trying? His plan isn't flawless, but he believes it's the best chance they have.

But then the raven comes. He is breaking his fast with his mother, distracted from their conversation and the food by an odd dream he's had the night before. "I dreamed of dragons," he tells the Lady Linnea. "They were dancing, and everywhere the dragons danced, people died."

His mother narrows her blue eyes at him. "Forget about it. No good ever came from dreams of dragons."

He's about to object when maester Caleotte brings them a scroll. "From Lord Varys," he explains with a curt bow.

Olyvar unrolls the scroll and smooths it before reading the message. "The Spider fears the Dragon Queen is starting to show signs of the Targaryen madness."

"He fears so only now?" his mother asks, one delicate eyebrow raised. "I thought we all knew what she was. Fire and blood, a true Targaryen. It's why Ellaria Sand and Olenna Tyrell declared for her. They both wanted vengeance. Look where it got them."

He nods, frowning at the scroll. "Varys claims the King in the North is not Eddard Stark's bastard, but a trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen by Lyanna Stark. He believes him to be more suitable for the Throne than his aunt."

She discards a blood orange peel. "And who's to say this Targaryen won't succumb to that infamous madness? Besides, Dorne will never support a son of Lyanna Stark."

Of course they won't. Dorne will never forget what happened to Elia Martell. Not that this Jon Snow is to blame for that, he was just an innocent babe brought into the world by his parents' folly when Elia and her children were murdered.

Olyvar can admit he feels sympathy for the man, another bastard who rose high in the world and then sacrificed his pride to save his people, if the stories were true. But he's also heard the rumours about Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen being lovers. If those are true, how does that change things? Would the man still support his lover if proof of her madness should surface?

And if he doesn't, will Olyvar's dream come true? Will the dragons dance again and kill everyone who's standing in their way? He knows he couldn't stop them if he wanted to, but he will do what he can for Dorne.

He won't sit and hide here any longer, like his uncle had done for years. It's time to strike. "I will march to King's Landing," he tells his mother.

"And what will you do when you get there?" she asks, eyes on her food. He knows it's to hide the twinkle of amusement in them that is there despite the worry she must feel for him, and for their people.

He waits until she looks up to offer her a wide grin. "I suppose that depends on what I'll find there."

 

 

_**Bran** _

He's caught glimpses of this, and he knows Sansa has seen it in her nightmares, but nothing could have prepared them for the sight of the ruins of King's Landing.

The future is never certain, but he's always been sure this would happen. He kept seeing the dancing dragons in his dreams. The black shadow that fills people's hearts with dread always hovered over King's Landing whenever he was looking for clues.

He's often wondered whether he should have stopped it, whether he could have. People make their choices, and once their path becomes clear it's often too hard for them to turn back.

Sansa clasps his hand, eyes filled with worry for him. She's noticed the change in him ever since he warged into Daenerys' dragon. Drogon's mind was a frightful place to inhabit, and Bran had to use all of his willpower to tear himself away, to not lose himself to his rage and greed.

He wonders if this is what happened to Daenerys, if the dragon poisoned her mind. Bran can still feel the red-hot sting of the predator's spirit, and it makes him want to hide his face in his hands like a scared little boy. He wishes his mind had never touched the dragon's, but he saved Jon, and he burned the Iron Throne.

He's grown wary of interfering, preferring to let things play out with just a slight nudge in the right direction here and there, but Jon is his brother, and he still has a part to play. It was the only way.

He only told Sansa Daenerys was dead when they left Riverrun, and encouraged her to make for Duskendale. 

There they found only six thousand of the nine thousand Northern soldiers who had marched south with Jon, and another five hundred made up of Stormlanders, Reachmen and even some former Lannister soldiers and Golden Company men who had tagged along.

None of them were eager to return to King's Landing, but Sansa convinced them. Bran hopes they're not making the wrong decision. He's not as sure of his course as before, when his goal had been to defeat the Night King, but doing something is always better than staying behind and doing nothing, it has to be.

He's never been this far south before, not physically, not with the benefit of all of his senses to take it all in and enjoy it. But there's no time for that now. When his mind isn't filled with visions of the past, of the present far away, and of possible futures, he's haunted by memories of those who left him to go south before, and never came back.

He asked the one who was the Three-Eyed Raven before him once, if it was possible to change the past. He cut off his question and told him it wasn't. Bran knows now that it might be possible, and the boy in him wants it, but he's learned his lesson.

Looking out over the ruins of the city, he wonders if it can ever be rebuilt. The sight makes him sad and tired. He's sore and stiff from being strapped into his saddle for days on end, and it feels as if he's being asked to climb a mountain. But he'll worry about that later, his brother and sister are still there, and they've come here to save them.

"He's in there," Sansa states softly, turning to him. "You're sure they..." She can't bring herself to finish the question. "He's still... They haven't...?" she tries again.

Something akin to anger flares in his chest. "Arya's there as well!"

A light crease appears between her eyebrows. "You're certain about that?"

"Where else would she go?" She came south to King's Landing and she wasn't with the rest of the Northern armies in Duskendale. He hasn't seen her death. She must be alive. If she knew Jon was still in there, she would go back and try to save him.

"Arya can take care of herself," she mutters, pursing her lips.

"And Jon can't?" he counters.

She sighs, briefly closing her eyes. "That's not what I meant. If what you saw is true..."

He nods. "It is."

"Then every moment we linger here is a waste of time," she snaps. "We need to get in there, now!"

"All in due time," he tells her.

Her eyes narrow and he can see how tightly she's gripping her horse's reins. "You're sure he's...?" Once again, she can't finish her question. 

He can't be sure. Time is a tricky thing, the most uncertain factor in everything he sees. And the Unsullied no longer control the city. Jon is supposed to survive, but Bran doesn't know what these new people plan to do with him. He won't tell Sansa any of that.

Suddenly guilt sinks into his stomach. Perhaps he was wrong to be cross with her. She does care about their sister, perhaps there's simply no room in her fearful mind to allow herself to think of her.

"I am sure," he says. "The scouts will return soon. We won't have to wait much longer."

 

 

_**Arya** _

_Wait for me outside the city walls._ As the hours went by, Jon's words kept echoeing through Arya's mind.  _Wait for me outside the city walls._ He hadn't told her how long to wait though. She'd wandered into the Northern camp and Ser Davos had found her there a couple of hours later, half asleep leaning back against a slim tree.

She'd been so tired for days, and she thought that just closing her eyes for a couple of moments wouldn't hurt. She felt horrible afterwards that she'd fallen asleep while Jon was still in there.

Some Northerners ran into bands of Dothraki screamers on the second day, and the following skirmishes ended in at least a dozen dead Northmen. That's when she and Ser Davos called Corren Mazin and Annys Dormund in for a meeting and they decided to move the Northern armies to Duskendale. 

Arya still worries for Jon, but she is a Stark of Winterfell, she has to take care of her people first. It's what he would tell her to do, she keeps repeating to herself, chewing her lip as her mount's gait rocks her in the saddle. It's what Father would want her to do. Even Mother would be proud of her, she thinks. But bile rises in her throat as she remembers that the Tully words are:  _family, duty, honour,_ in that order. Family is supposed to come first, even if her mother might not agree that Jon is worth saving.

She would, if she knew the truth, if she learned about everything he did for them, for Sansa, for the rest of the world.  _He still chose his queen over you and Sansa,_ a stern voice that sounds like Lady Catelyn's reminds her. He refused to see her for what she was and he went south with her. And even after she massacred the city, he chose to stay with her.

Some days the pain and the memories make her sick to her stomach. She'll wake up in the morning, or she'll just be sitting by the fire at night, or up in the saddle during the day, and suddenly the nausea hits her. She's retched up most of her meagre meals the last couple of days, but she hardly feels hungry, most days, the smell of food makes her stomach churn.

The nights are the nicest times for her. She's happy in her wolf dreams, dealing only with simple emotions and desires. It would be so much easier if she could stay inside her wolf the entire time, but she can't. Leaving her behind is so painful that waking up almost makes her cry stupid, useless tears. She needs to stop thinking about all of it, before it overwhelms her again. 

Furiously, she shakes her head and digs her heels into her palfrey's flanks, leaving the King's Road to let the wind and the rhythm of the galloping animal clear her mind. It's not as good as the wolf dreams, but it helps.

Close to the vanguard, her eyes catch a head of thick black hair. it's good to see him, to know that he's alive and well, and though the sight of him makes for a welcome distraction, she doesn't stop to go talk to him.

Unfortunately for her, it doesn't matter, because Gendry has seen her, and he follows her, he even urges his horse to speed up when she does, trying to get away from him. 

"Arya!" he calls out.

 _Fine,_ she thinks. If the stupid dolt can't take a hint, she'll listen to what he has to say. She slows down to a trot, and waits for him to catch up. 

"You're not very good at pretending you didn't see me," are the first words out of his mouth.

 _Seven hells, what an idiot._ The urge to leave him far behind her and the desire to push him into the dirt war inside her mind, but she resists them both. Instead, she takes a steadying breath and tells him: "It's good to see you, my lord."

The change in his face is almost comical, as if a storm cloud is obscuring it, but she's in no mood to laugh.

"I'm not a lord," he mumbles.

"The Dragon Queen made you one. Lord Baratheon of Storm's End," she reminds him, lifting her chin as she holds in the smirk that threatens to pull up her lips. "You told me so yourself."

His silence makes her look over at him, and he looks positively devastated now. "I don't want to be a lord," he says, keeping his eyes down. "Especially not after..." He shakes his head, holding her gaze for a moment until they both avert their eyes. 

He seemed happy before, about being made a lord. Maybe it just felt nice, to be given something, to finally be acknowledged after years of being a nameless bastard without a thing to call his own in the world. When she closes her eyes then, it's not Gendry's face she sees, but her brother's.

"I need to go," she mutters as her eyes fly open.

"What?"

"I need to go," she repeats, more firmly now, before turning her palfrey around. 

"Wait!" he shouts. "Where are you going?"

She allows herself one last look over her shoulder as she gallops away from him. "Back to King's Landing!"

 

 

_**Drogon** _

Flying hurts. Every stroke of his once powerful wings is agony. His muscles burn and ache, and blood is dripping from his wounds, sizzling as it evaporates from his scales. He doesn't even know where he's going, but he needs to get away from the power that pierced his mind and took control of his body. It was a ringing in his ears, a prickling running through his body as he was trapped inside himself, paralyzed and unable to fight it.

Just remembering it, makes him screech out in pain. He's panting and his wings are starting to fail, and the slight weight of the body he's carrying feels like a heavy burden weighing him down. He can't go on anymore, he'll need to find a place to rest and eat. 

Below him are miles of trees, but a short while ahead, there's a nice open spot with some water running through. He's always liked water. It's not the open sea with its mighty rolling waves that send up a a soothing spray to his belly as he soars above it, but a little splash will have to do. 

He turns his nose downward, tail up and lets the wind carry him on, slowly gliding down to the river. Gently, he drops the body he's carrying and makes contact with the ground. His legs buckle on impact, and he slumps to his side, softly whimpering.

He's flown such a long way, and he's tired and aching. His stomach is empty, the hunger impossible to ignore, but he can hardly move. He lifts his head, roaring with the effort and lets it flop back down again, bumping into the small body he carried up here. 

He nudges her side with his nose. She's cold now, very cold. She was his rider once, more than that, hers was the first face he saw after he broke free from the egg that had sheltered him.  _Mother_ was the man-word she used for herself. He was hers once, and she was his, but now she's only a bundle of fresh meat, and he's so awfully hungry.

He lifts his head again, opening his mouth. The flame coming out of it is pathetic compared to the mighty fires he's produced in the past, but it's enough. He tears out a chunk of sweet juicy meat and purs in satisfaction, swallowing it whole.

He inhales deeply before taking another bite and freezes. The scent he suddenly captures all around him is deep and pungent, musky and earthy, with a tinge of sickening sweetness. He senses the movements before he can hear their paws on the forest floor. 

Hundreds of yellow eyes are glaring at him from heads covered in fur of different shades of grey. They're circling closer, surrounding him, growling at him. They should be afraid, but they're not. Is it the meat they want? Are they that hungry? They can't take it. It's his. 

He tries to roar back at them to scare them off, but the sound coming out of his throat is closer to a tortured shriek. He tries to spit flames at them, but his fires are burning low, he's even starting to feel cold. 

The wolves before him part and a female twice the size of the other ones stalks toward him. Her fur is thicker and it shines where the last rays of evening sunlight are hitting it. She's staring at him with eyes of molten gold, baring her teeth in a low growl that rumbles through her body as it builds until it rips from her throat in a fierce, sharp snarl. Howls emerge all around him and then they're on him.

He tries to fight back, but there are too many of them, pulling him down, their teeth and claws finding purchase on his scales and the soft skin of his belly. He's blinded as they pour onto his head and scratch and bite at his eyes. He struggles and roars out in pain, managing to rip a couple of them apart or crush them with his body. 

He's growing weak, and so tired, slowly sinking away as he tries to fight for his life, and then the bitch sinks her teeth into his throat and he succumbs to the cold, heavy darkness that's pulling him under. 

  

 

_**Cersei** _

Cersei has been thrown into a cell and left to rot before, and though it can be argued that her circumstances are considerably worse than the last time, she doesn't feel the rage and desperation she felt back then. Most of the time she's just bored.

The delay is annoying her. If they're going to kill her, why aren't they getting on with it? She's hardly getting any food and water. Are they trying to starve her to death?

She moves closer to the small window so she can watch her cell mate sleep. He's not that interesting, but there's nothing else for her to do here.

Even asleep, when he looks younger and not as sullen, his face softer, without that perpetual frown and pout etched on his face, it's hard to believe this Jon Snow is not Ned Stark's bastard, when the resemblance is almost uncanny.

There's shouting outside and the far-off sound of heavy boots. She wonders what's happening out there. Perhaps the Dragon Queen's armies are fighting amongst themselves now that their leader is dead. 

The Dothraki won't stay here, they'll sack what's left of the city and move on, it's what they do. The Unsullied are excellent soldiers, but what can they do when there's no one left to command them?

If there's fighting going on out there, the Northerners are the most likely to win, which means they might come for their king soon, but what will they do to her? And more importantly, what can she do about it?

She looks down at Jon Snow's face again. It's a handsome face. Perhaps there is something of Rhaegar Targaryen in him, the line of his nose perhaps and the fullness of his mouth, the long lashes fluttering against his cheeks. 

She lies down beside him, face to face, and she reaches out to brush a curl from his face. Would it be enough to save her life? Would it be worth it? It wouldn't be half as bad as it was with Euron Greyjoy.

He's young and pretty for a man. Perhaps he would even be gentle. He must be as desperate as she is, it might not even be that difficult.

She moves closer to him, pressing her body up against his. He's surprisingly warm and his muscled body is hard against her soft one. Still asleep he slings an arm over her body and groans. Maybe this will be even easier than she expected.

He blinks then, starting to stir, and he licks his full lips as he is startled awake. "What the-- What are you doing?"

"I'm cold," she whispers roughly, slipping a hand between their bodies to find him already half-hard from sleep and her closeness.

"Get the fuck away from me!" He jerks backwards, pushing her away, and inexplicably, his rejection hurts.

Her nostrils flare. "Close your eyes if it's not dark enough. Imagine my hair is silver and longer."

He stares back at her with a face as immobile as stone. 

"Too soon?" she asks, hardly able to stop her lips from curling into a smirk. "You'd better get over yourself. We'll be dead soon. Don't you want a last good fuck before you die?"

"What makes you think I'd want that with you?" he asks, face contorted in disbelief.

"My cunt is wet and warm, and it's the only one you're going to get in here," she points out. "Just pretend I'm your sister or whatever it is you Targaryens get off on."

If Cersei were still a shy maiden, the glare he gives her would probably set her loins on fire. Perhaps he's not as dull as she assumed. Is this the side of him that captivated his dragon bitch?

It's not his glare that caught her attention though, whether it be born from righteous anger or something else, it's the look that passed over his face just before, so quickly she could have blinked and missed it. It was only a slight parting of his lips, a widening of his eyes, a flash of a shadow... The shock and shame of being caught, she decides.

"You're one to talk," he tells her, eyes still furious, and his tone is biting.

She laughs. "Jaime and I are different. I know what I am, what Jaime and I are to each other, and I am proud of it. I don't care what others whisper behind my back. You on the other hand..." She studies his face, the face that betrays he's only pretending he's indifferent to her words. "You like to believe you're as honourable as good old Ned Stark tried to raise you, but you're not, are you?"

He sighs and turns away from her. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

She smiles to herself. "I think you do." She lets him ponder those words in silence before she adds: "You seemed startled earlier, when I said you could pretend I was your sister."

"I wasn't startled," he barks. "Just repulsed by your vile suggestions."

She hums. "Of course." She waits, closes her eyes, lets him think she's done with him, and then she asks: "Does she know?"

"Who is supposed to know what?" He sounds annoyed.

"Does Sansa know you know you want to fuck her?" she asks sweetly.

He's quiet, he doesn't accuse her of being vile this time. Instead he takes a deep breath before facing her again. "Do you know how easy it would be for me to murder you in your sleep?"

"Could you do it though?" she asks. "I am with child, Jon Snow. Could you really do that? Murdering a defenceless woman in her sleep and the babe she's carrying under her heart with her?"

She smiles as she sees him hesitate, but then she lets her face fall. The tears come surprisingly easily. "My poor babe," she sniffles, rolling away from him. "I lost all of my children, the worst thing that could happen to a mother."

She lets the sobs wreck her body, making them unnecessarily loud. "And then I thought the gods were giving me another chance when they blessed me with this little one. But then-- now--" she allows her words to dissolve into more sobs.

When she feels a large, warm hand on her shoulder, her heart swells with triumph.

 

 

 

 

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End file.
